


H2O

by lindsey_grissom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Desperation, Kink Meme, M/M, Situational Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:27:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsey_grissom/pseuds/lindsey_grissom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"If your stomach is quite empty, chances are that you're going to have to go to the bathroom sooner than if you drink water after you visit an "All You Can Eat Buffet"."</i> - (anon, wiki)</p><p>Mycroft's meeting runs late but even after too many glasses of water and a broken lift, he will fight not to show weakness in front of his almost-lover.  Unfortunately, there are things even Mycroft Holmes can't hide forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	H2O

The meeting runs over by a considerable length of time (Mycroft is fully aware that most of the delay in the meeting has come from his own mouth but that does not appease him in the slightest). Unable to check the exact time because of the connotations inherent in such an action, he still knows that he is very late for his lunch with John.

He has been measuring the time spent in this room by his water jug which has been refilled twice since the meeting began at eight and as the Undersecretary for Defence opens his mouth, Mycroft leans forward and pours the last of the current jug into his glass. He isn't thirsty but he _is_ hungry and to avoid the embarrassment of an audibly empty stomach, he is more than willing to fill up on water to quieten it. 

Others join the conversation again and Mycroft leans back in his chair, sipping from his glass. It honestly cannot last much longer; at least two of the people in the room have another meeting with the Prime Minister at three.

Eventually the room quiets, only a few murmurs here and there as the meeting winds down. Mycroft stands, raising his glass.

"A productive morning as always Gentlemen." He dismisses them, draining the last of the water. His assistant appears at his elbow as the men leave the conference room and he passes her the empty glass.

"Doctor Watson arrived for you ninety minutes ago, Sir." Mycroft grimaces, looking at his watch. He would have expected John to possibly wait three quarters of an hour, but not this long.

"Well, perhaps you could rearrange some time later this week?" He asks without much hope, already running his full schedule through his mind. 

"He's still here, Sir." Celia (she is working her way through the letter "C" this month) keeps her eyes on her Blackberry. "He brought a book."

Something in Mycroft twists at that. He and John have only been doing this for a few months with barely any time actually spent together when Mycroft's job, Sherlock and John's own hours at the surgery take up so much of their time. They're still trying to fit themselves together to see if they take. 

"If that is all Sir?" Mycroft brings his attention back to his assistant.

"Yes, yes of course. Have a good afternoon." She smiles at him without looking up and leaves the room; they have both been looking forward to the rareness of an afternoon off.

With a shake of his head, Mycroft tugs his sleeve straight before buttoning his jacket around his waistcoat. It rests against him uncomfortably and the increase in gravity from standing after sitting for so long reminds him that he has one stop to make before he can contemplate eating anything. Picking up his notebook he tucks it into his pocket and heads for his office.

He stops short a corridor before it. John pushes himself out of his casual lean against the wall, a smile tugging at his lips. He has Mycroft's coat thrown over one arm and an umbrella clasped in his hand.

"About time." He says, and moves closer. "I'm starving."

"I was unavoidably detained. I apologise." John passes him his coat and uses the material to cover the fall of his hand onto Mycroft's forearm.

"I understand." He gives Mycroft's arm a squeeze. "Besides, I enjoyed the quiet time." He pulls back and Mycroft reads the latest of Sherlock's annoyances in John's eyes.

"Yes, Celia mentioned you brought a book." He slips into his coat and takes the umbrella from John's hand, making sure to brush their fingers together.

"Celia?"

"Anthea."

"Right. Yes, well if I try to read at the flat Sherlock usually gets bored after half an hour and tells me the ending." He shrugs his shoulders. "Easier not to bother anymore. You don't mind?" He adds, shooting a quick glance at Mycroft. Mycroft smiles, shaking his head. 

"John, you have just waited almost two hours for me." He doesn't say that he is grateful, that however John decided to spend that time is inconsequential because he _waited_. Instead he twirls his umbrella once because he enjoys the way that John's eyes roll when he does, and then nods in the direction of the front lobby. "Shall we?"

John hesitates, biting his lip. "Actually, I uh, I rented a car for us."

Mycroft blinks. "You rented a car?" John nods. Mycroft turns away from the front of the building and heads back the way he came, towards the lifts to the underground car park. John is a steady presence beside him. "I did not expect that." He admits.

"That's a pretty big part of the reason I did it." John laughs, watching their feet as they walk. "I thought we could go to that Italian place you like so much and then take a drive out of the city for a bit?" He looks at Mycroft and must misinterpret whatever he sees on his face because he adds; "I know we could have taken one of your cars, but I used to enjoy driving before." He waves his hand in a gesture that is meant to incorporate his deployments, his injury and the subsequent move to central London. "Besides, I thought we might like a bit of privacy." His ears go a delightful shade of pink and Mycroft has to fight the urge to reach out and touch them. Using the handle of his umbrella he presses the button for the lift instead.

"You were right." He says as the numbers above the lift doors count down. John turns a bright smile on him and Mycroft wishes the lift would come faster. There are no cameras in these lifts; budget cuts since the last election - Mycroft has for some time raved against the cut to his Office's spending but if it will now allow him the privacy to finally touch John he may be persuaded to live with it for a little longer.

The lift arrives and Mycroft smiles as John steps into it before the doors have fully opened. _It isn't just me_ , he thinks with a thrill as he follows the doctor in, pressing for the doors to close behind him.

John has his hand on Mycroft's shoulder as soon as the lift begins to move; a question as his eyes flick to the empty corners of the ceiling. In answer Mycroft tilts his face down to capture the shorter man's lips with his own. 

He doesn't have much experience with kissing men, and none with kissing soldiers and doctors (outside of John, of course) but Mycroft believes that the way John kisses; firmly but with an almost aching softness, is reflective of the paradox implicit in the man's twin professions. 

He brings a hand up to John's head and lets his fingers slide between the strands of his hair, cupping John closer to him. John leans into the touch, rising up further against him and runs his tongue across Mycroft's lips. Mycroft opens his mouth, meeting John's tongue with his own in invitation, he groans at the same time as John, the sound vibrating in their mouths. He tilts his head, brushing his tongue along the line of John's teeth.

The lift jolts to a sudden stop around them and they pull apart, hands grasping at each other's shoulders to keep standing. Their breathing is loud in the sudden silence of the lift and Mycroft finds his thoughts running; they haven't stopped on the right floor, even distracted as he has been by John he knows they have only passed through one level. The lift doors stay stubbornly closed and the lights flicker twice before settling back on. Not a power cut; so localised, most likely only the lifts affected.

Pulling away from John, Mycroft reaches for his phone. He glares at the screen, the 'no signal' symbol almost smug as it glows back at him. Beside him, John sighs and Mycroft knows that his phone is equally as useless to them.

The panelled walls are simply that, concealing nothing of use and once both he and John have tried to pry the doors apart and failed, Mycroft accepts what he has known since they stopped moving; they have no choice but to wait until someone notices the broken lift.

"We could try calling out?" John offers, no doubt in response to something he sees on Mycroft's face.

"We're at the back of the building. No one will come this way until they require the lift." 

"Oh." John looks around them again, surveying the confined space and inevitably finding it unchanged in the last few minutes. He shrugs and digs into his jacket pocket, pulling something out and then removing his jacket. "Best get comfy then." He says, folding the black coat and dropping it to the floor. Mycroft watches him settle onto the rectangle of material and then begin to peel the orange that had apparently been in his pocket. 

He looks up at Mycroft. "Come on. We don't know how long we'll be here, you don't want to stand around." He pats the ground next to him and Mycroft looks at it in disgust. "Mycroft. Sit down." He holds out a hand invitingly and even though Mycroft is tempted to refuse again because he has not enjoyed sitting on the ground since he was five years old, he finds that refusing John when John looks up at him beneath his lashes (he isn't sure if the man is doing it on purpose or if it is just a result of the angle between them) requires a greater strength of will than Mycroft has ever laid claim to.

Leaning his umbrella in a corner, he slides his coat off of his shoulders, wincing as he folds the wool into itself, leaving the dark red lining exposed. Laying it carefully on the floor, he lowers himself onto it, stretching his legs out in front of him, his arm resting against John's.

"Orange?" John asks once he has stilled, holding out a cupped hand where the peeled fruit lays, the segments already separated. Mycroft follows the line of John's arm up to his shoulder, then along his neck to reach his face just as the doctor takes a bite of his own piece of orange. 

The skin of the fruit bursts between John's teeth and a dribble of juice escapes his lips to run down his chin. Mycroft swallows thickly, his cock giving an enthusiastic pulse between his legs. John smiles, and nudges the rest of the slice against Mycroft's lips which part willingly without any conscious thought. John gives the fruit a squeeze so that a burst of juice squirts to the back of his throat. 

Mycroft's cock pulses again; they've never done this before, teased each other this way, they've only had a few dates so far and it hasn't progressed much passed long drawn out kisses in the back of one of Mycroft's cars. He leans forward, pressing his lips to John's as he swallows the fruit.

In the back of his mind, he registers a slight discomfort at adding more to his stomach, but John's fingers wrap around his neck, his thumb rubbing along his jaw and he ignores it in favour of focussing completely on the man before him, licking at his skin and soaking up the juice.

+++

An hour later with still no change to their circumstances, the discomfort is much harder for Mycroft to ignore. John passes his phone to him and Mycroft squints down at the screen, fighting the urge to wiggle where he sits. 

His fingers are steady as he uses them to move his rook across the screen, but his toes curl up in his shoes at the movement of his arm across his stomach. He lifts his elbow up higher so as not to rest on himself and passes the phone back.

While John decides on his next move, Mycroft allows his eyes to close and he concentrates on anything other than the urgency of his bladder. He focuses on the new things he has learnt in the last hour; the smell of John's skin where neck meets shoulder, the sound of his voice as he ordered Mycroft to sit, the skills of a trained Captain which translate into a fairly decent chess player. His bladder tightens suddenly and Mycroft bites down on a groan, his hand twitching on his thigh, so close and if he were alone here he would have it between his legs, holding desperately. But he isn't alone, and he will control himself. 

The buttons of his waistcoat feel like they're digging into him, pressing into the bloated curve of his stomach and pushing, pushing. If he can just loosen them, he'll be fine, he just needs to loosen them without John wondering.

"You're letting me win, aren't you?" John's voice shatters Mycroft's thoughts and his eyes flash open just as John turns to him. He plasters on a blank look, which is easy enough with how much he is trying not to show. Slowly, his fingers unclench as the latest urgent wave lessens its hold on him.

"Nonsense. I would never presume to patronise you in such a way." 

John huffs a laugh at him, his eyes rolling skyward and Mycroft brings his hands up to his waistcoat, unhurriedly unbuttoning it. John catches the movement and tilts his head.

"Hot?" Mycroft nods, nudging the second button from its hole. "Me too." John lays the phone by his leg and grasps the hem of his jumper in both hands, bringing his arms up over his head to lift it off. His shirt rides up baring a line of skin at his side. Mycroft's hands freeze as his eyes focus in on the slightly tanned strip of flesh. He closes his eyes, a good portion of his brain imagining what that skin would taste like, would feel like beneath his fingers. 

A soft touch dances across his knuckles making him jump, his bladder pulses and Mycroft squeezes his thighs together tightly, eyes opening and holding John's own, right in front of him.

"Let me." John says, and brushes Mycroft's knuckles again. He releases the buttons surprisingly quickly and Mycroft lets some of his surprise show through to his face. John smiles at him, tugging at the lapels of Mycroft's jacket and then pushing it down and off his arms.

"I've fought in the desert, Mycroft. When a man says he's hot, the last thing he wants is to take his time undressing." There's a layer of innuendo to the words, but John strips off Mycroft's waistcoat with just as much efficiency as he has his jacket. 

The pressure that had eased a little with the release of the buttons flares again as he is forced to lean forward to fully remove his waistcoat and jacket. Unable to sit still a moment longer, he uses the forward momentum to propel himself to his feet, concealing the almost squirm of his body by twisting to face the back wall of the lift. 

He is aware of John watching him from the floor, but he paces a little in the small amount of room available, grateful for John's stature when he is able to pass his feet without having to step over them. It helps, for a moment, to be moving, the distraction great enough that he can control his reactions to the next wave of pressure by clenching his fingers into fists.

Idly he notices that John has moved to stand as well, and is looking at him in concern. He turns, two steps, turn. "Mycroft?"

Before he can say anything in response, he realises in an instant that standing, walking was a mistake as the movement finally adds to the downward pull of nature to increase his need so much it almost staggers him. He reaches out, grasping at the bar that circles the lift with one hand, his knuckles turning white. The muscles of his stomach ache with the need to push, to release their tension and empty his bladder and his belly feels heavy and distended, an added weight pushing down on him. His free hand clenches and releases over and over as he resists the temptation to press it between his legs. 

It feels like an age before John's fingers slide into his own, grasping tightly; but he knows John and realises that it can only have been a second at most before John was at his side.

"Mycroft? What's wrong?" Another time, Mycroft would smile gently at John's honest concern for him, it isn't something that he has become accustomed to yet. Instead he squeezes his eyes closed and clenches his thighs together, adjusting his hand so that he grips John's hand back. "Are you hurt?"

Mycroft takes a shallow breath, then another, another until the wave slowly passes, not completely and leaving behind a painful ache deep inside, but he is able to straighten up and look at John. 

"I'm fine." He says, controlling every muscle in his face the way that he is trying with the rest of his body. John frowns at him in obvious disbelief and Mycroft almost groans aloud as John shifts into Doctor mode and his eyes scan over Mycroft.

"Bollocks." He says eventually, stepping closer to Mycroft, his free hand reaching up to stroke over Mycroft's forehead. Mycroft tries to stay still but his muscles clench, his bladder contracting painfully and he twists at the waist, buttocks clenching, knees bending so that he appears to bob in place. "Oh Mycroft."

Mycroft closes his eyes against the knowing, understanding look on John's face. His cheeks heat even as his back chills with a cold sweat. John presses a kiss against his cheek before dragging his hand down from Mycroft's head, down his chest to lay against his stomach. Mycroft twists away, but John shushes him gently, pressing his lips to his cheekbone again. 

The hand returns, but applies no pressure, dancing across Mycroft's abdomen and moving down, over his shirt to where he can feel the throbbing increasing again. 

John's fingers rest against the top of Mycroft's belt, unable to move further without pushing against him. His hand is warm even through the thick shirt, and Mycroft can feel some of the pain in his strained muscles ease as John rubs his thumb in small circles against the side of his belly.

"Can you hold it?" John asks, thumb still rubbing. Mycroft opens his eyes to glare down at the top of his blonde head.

"I have not lost so much control that I would wet myself like an infant, Doctor." He bites out, but he squeezes the hand in his own even tighter as his bladder tries once again to relieve itself. John's thumb stills, his hand fluttering a little, most likely in response to the cramping of Mycroft's stomach against it.

John looks up at him, taking in the flush and sweat that betrays Mycroft's words, his own face looking pained.

"How long?" He asks, and though his face is not, his tone is professional. Mycroft glares at him, unwilling to answer. "Mycroft, tell me. How long has it been like this?"

"Not long." He answers eventually, almost truthfully as he has only been this bad for half an hour, though it feels like longer. His voice chokes off as he bends a little at the waist, his heart hammering while he finally gives in and releases the wall to shove his hand between his legs. He presses hard against the tip of his cock, grinding down painfully, locking his knees to stop himself from drifting sideways without the lift's support.

"For God's sake, Mycroft." John squeezes his hand tightly, moving in front of him and Mycroft lets himself tilt further forward to bury his burning face in the doctor's neck. The angle's no good, in fact it makes things worse, his stomach forced to fold a little in the middle and press down all the more. He clenches a hand into John's shirt and bites at the doctor's shoulder, the cotton soaking with his saliva.

John's hand leaves his belly to rub up and down his back, long broad strokes that somehow force Mycroft to concentrate on them. John breathes into his hair, stroking up and down. "Just let go." He says and for a moment, when the relief of permission is too much, Mycroft almost does. 

His fingers fiddle at his fly and he shifts his hips eagerly and then he remembers where he is and tears his hand away, forcing himself to stand straight, pushing away from John and leaning back against the wall.

He gulps in air while John stares at him, eyes dark with concern. "No." He says eventually, twisting and realising that it is his belt now that is too tight, that feels like it is cutting him in half, pressing through him. "I will control this." He says, letting his legs slide out from under him as he slowly lowers himself to the floor.

"Mycroft, there's no shame in it." He says, moving down to his knees beside Mycroft and lying, lying because of course there's shame in this, Mycroft's head is pounding with it.

"I'll be fine." Mycroft forces out. His hands are shaking and he scrabbles at his belt, desperate to be free of the constriction that will almost certainly be his downfall if he doesn’t get it off **now**. "I will not urinate in this lift like some drunken fool." His voice scratches through his throat and his stomach is surely swelling around his belt, sucking it in and Mycroft needs to be free, _please, please, not this_. 

His thighs are squeezed so tight he can feel a cramp developing and his bladder is so heavy inside him he wants to lift it like a woman heavy in pregnancy might do to ease the drag of her extra weight. He bites his lip, fingers still not able to work the belt out of the first loop of his trousers, and tastes blood on his tongue and no, no he can't swallow. He can't add more, he can't. " _I can't._ " He gasps out and then John is there, his surgeons fingers sliding between Mycroft's, tugging carefully at the leather and pulling it out through one loop and then another.

"Okay, it's okay." He says, his hands working quickly and Mycroft grabs at John's forearms and digs his fingers in because he isn't working quickly enough and it hurts and he just needs to be free.

He wriggles, squirming against the floor, unable to stop even though it makes John's job harder, John who is trying so hard to work at Mycroft's buckle without pressing against him. He knows he has lost some of his control, can't hide anymore, but he doesn't care because he just needs the pain, the urgency to stop.

"Nearly there." John says, his voice strained and then Mycroft feels the band around him release and it's so good that he almost lets himself relax with the pleasure of being free. It's a dangerous thought and he stiffens his muscles again instantly, too late to stop a single drop from easing out of him and wetting his underwear. John's fingers loosen the lowest buttons on his shirt and he breathes in a shuddery breath.

"Someone will be by soon." He says, not sure if he is trying to convince himself or John. "I'll be fine." He repeats and this time he is definitely telling himself as he stills his movements again.

John shifts, kneeling at his side, his hand still at Mycroft's waistband, waiting. He brushes the other over Mycroft's head, rubbing at his brow. "Please Mycroft, you're hurting yourself. Just let go, in the corner. No one will know."

" _Everyone will know_." He grounds out darkly, starting to shift as his stomach muscles cramp, pressing in on him.

The pressure keeps on building and Mycroft imagines that he should look like a cartoon man who has swallowed a cannonball, his bladder feels so full. He knows the nature of the cells there allow for a good deal of expansion but he can't help but think that this is too much and soon he'll burst open and how he regrets that final glass now. 

The thought of the water makes everything twice as urgent again, the brief reprieve of his removed belt wearing off so quickly that his breath leaves him in a sob. He presses desperately between his legs, gripping himself tightly and squeezing, his thumb trying to seal itself over the head through his trousers and his bladder contracts, pressing down on that sensitive place inside him that he has only just begun to explore in himself again and his cock jerks in his hand, hardening momentarily.

The pleasure and pain, desperation and shame of it is too much for him, his body betraying him in so many ways and he turns his face into the cotton of John's stomach, tears leaking out things that he must be feeling but he can't understand even as he continues to grind down on himself.

John holds him close, wrapping an arm around Mycroft's shoulders and mouthing against his crown. Mycroft jerks, clenching his buttocks and arching his back so that his torso is stretched long, his feet bracing against the floor to lift himself up because he needs the stretch, needs to give his bladder somewhere to go that isn't down and out. 

He feels it easing a little as it spreads but it isn't nearly enough and he collapses down again, legs falling to the side, and he wants to curl up, needs to curl into a ball and never come apart, to wrap his arms around himself and hold it all together.

He starts to curl, arms sliding around but the pressure is too great and he gasps, and he feels so pathetic, squirming on a dirty lift floor in his would-be lover's arms denying but knowing that there is no hope and he has only minutes before his humiliation is complete and he comes undone in this place where he must be above this, must appear as something more than human. 

He feels so very human in this moment, broken and falling apart and still the pressure in his belly won't relent.

He trembles, exhausted and his hair clings to him with sweat even as he shivers with cold chills.

He _is_ pathetic, unable to control this most basest of bodily functions, he who his younger brother calls the Government, the Iceman, brought low by too much water and too little control. 

And why must he fall now, when John (not yet his, but oh how he had hoped secretly at night) is here to witness it all? John who will leave him when this is over, will never again look at him and see the man who controls everything, and it _hurts_ almost as much as the pressure in his belly, to think that he will lose what they might have had and he will hold himself in, he may squirm and wriggle and cry but he will not let his body win and and …and he needs to stand. He needs to stand now because it's too much and standing must be better, cannot possibly be worse than his stomach pressing him down.

"Mycroft? What are you-?"

"Standing. I- I need to-. John, I-" He tries pushing himself up but he can't bend forward, not without bringing about the end and he has never been an active man, he cannot bring himself to his feet like a gymnast without aid. He shakes his head, bucking against his own body's hold on him keeping him down when he needs to be up.

His mind is everywhere and nowhere at once, thoughts not making any sense (and oh, oh is this what Sherlock felt with drugs in his veins? He could never be this scattered so often) except he knows he needs to stand and he _can't._

"John, please." He begs and bucks and he doesn't realise that John has already shifted, adjusting his hold until he feels the doctor lifting him from behind, a hand on the small of his back, keeping him from bending too much and he tenses his knees, planting his feet on the floor and everything tightens as he finally stands.

John stays behind him, his arms hovering around his waist, circling him without touching. And why did Mycroft do this? _Why why?_ Because now he knows, knows like he has rarely been so horrifyingly certain before that he _will not last._ Not standing. 

Not with gravity pulling and his bladder pulsing and his stomach cramping and then John's hands are at the button of his trousers, nimble fingers nudging it through the hole and yes, that's better. 

His zip is pulled down and his trousers fall away from his skin and then John has his hands at Mycroft's boxers, peeling them carefully away from his stomach and tugging them down and without the elastic, there is nothing pressing on Mycroft except for his own skin and it is all still _too much_. He whimpers, hating himself like never before and leans back into the solid body behind him, every part of him focussed on maintaining the last ounce of control he has, because someone has to come for them soon, surely and then he will be out and everything will be fine. 

John's callused fingers curl around his cock, lifting it up from his thigh and yes, that's good too. He knew it would be. John rests a hand against the lowest part of Mycroft's belly, still holding his cock and Mycroft thinks that he can make it, he can he can.

"I'm sorry." John says suddenly, his voice muffled in Mycroft's shoulder. "I'm sorry, but that's enough." And then he _presses down_ on Mycroft's stomach, gently at first but Mycroft still gasps loudly, trying to pull away. 

His hands grab at John's arms, trying to break his hold, but John continues to press, moving his hand now in sweeping gestures that start at the top of the curve of Mycroft's stomach where the pressure behind his skin is worst, rubbing down around the distension of his bladder to end at his groin, the tips of his fingers brushing Mycroft's pubic hair. And each time he pushes against Mycroft's flesh, as though to direct the water inside Mycroft down and out. 

Mycroft can feel it working, his control crumbling at the extra pressure and he twists desperately, one last attempt to get away from John but then John's hand pushes one more time, and Mycroft's bladder is forced back and against that sensitive spot inside him and John stops moving, and just rests, waiting, _pressing_ and Mycroft goes still, the first wave forcing it's way through him and out through his cock and he tries to stop it but it's too much and more comes and he can't stop now.

The tension leaves his body with the flood of urine and he falls back further against John, burying his face against John's neck and surrenders to the doctor's manipulation of his body.

His cock pulses in John's hand, even as he continues to relieve himself into the corner of the lift because it feels so good to let go after so long, and the pain in his body starts to ease beneath the pleasure.

He realises that John is speaking, pressing whispered words into the side of his face and he tries to listen.

"Sorry, I'm sorry. It's okay, love, it's okay. It'll be over soon. Don't worry." The stream of words continues and then it really is over; Mycroft's bladder finishes emptying and he feels hollow, like there is too much space inside him. 

He slumps, unable to remain standing and John grunts behind him as they both slide to the floor, careful to avoid the wet corner of the lift.

John runs his fingers through Mycroft's hair over and over and Mycroft leans bodily against him, muscles trembling from overuse and for a moment, in the stillness after all the frenzied movement, everything is almost fine.

The pungent smell from the corner reaches Mycroft's nose and he scrunches it up, drawing into himself. John moves and silently begins buttoning his shirt, pulling Mycroft's underwear and trousers back up over his hips and tucking him back in. Every few seconds he smoothes a hand over Mycroft's stomach, soothing the muscles that continue to spasm reflexively. 

Reaching behind them John picks up the jacket and waistcoat and Mycroft submits to the rest of the redressing. The buttons do up easily, no longer a cause of discomfort and again John pauses to rub at Mycroft's stomach before straightening his jacket.

He combs his fingers through Mycroft's hair, taming it before leaning forward and dropping a kiss on his cheek. He picks up his jumper and folds it in half, then half again.

He settles back down at Mycroft's side, making no effort to straighten his own rumbled clothing and wraps an arm around Mycroft's waist.

"Come here." He says, and Mycroft hesitates only a moment before complying with the soft command and after shuffling his body down a little further so that he lines up with John's smaller frame, he rests his head on John's chest. John nudges him up, places the folded jumper beneath his head and then strokes a finger down Mycroft's cheek, urging him to rest back against him again. He does, his body practically curling into the shorter man. It is too late now to maintain any dignity.

The smell comes again and Mycroft jerks, John brings a hand up to press Mycroft's face further into his chest, and the jumper surrounds Mycroft's nose so that all he can smell is John and he closes his eyes.

"Don't worry, I'll wake you up when help comes." John says, his fingers tracing from Mycroft's ear around the curve of his jaw to his chin and back again.

"I did not believe you would leave me to be found this way by my colleagues John." Mycroft replies and pushes deeper into the other man, wishing it were possible to never have to face the outside world again.

"Don't worry." John says again, his voice sounding distant. "I have a plan." Mycroft thinks he should be worried but he is too tired and sleep pulls him under before he can do more than think about it.

+++

Some time later Mycroft wakes to someone shaking his shoulder gently, not someone, John. Mycroft opens his eyes, pulling away from the doctor and blinking around him. Away from John's body and the jumper turned pillow the smell of his failure is overwhelming and without the blanket of exhaustion Mycroft feels the swell of humiliation crest over him. 

"Someone's coming." John says, shaking out his freed shoulder, his _injured_ shoulder Mycroft notes and for a second he feels a rush of tenderness for this man. He pushes it away when John's words register and Mycroft pushes himself to his feet, glad to find his legs once again as steady as they should be.

He tugs his cuffs down and buttons up his jacket, shaking out his coat and wrapping it over his arm, he reaches for his umbrella but a tanned hand gets there first. He blinks, pulling up and glares down at John.

John looks back, the umbrella held still in the space between them.

"My umbrella." Mycroft says, holding out his hand. John doesn't move. "John." Still John refuses to acknowledge the request. "Stop this, John. I will leave here with some of the dignity afforded me." He adds, wanting the support the umbrella allows him. 

John nods. "You'll have all of it." He says and then proceeds to open the umbrella turning it in his hands so that the handle faces away from him. Mycroft knows then what he intends and he almost laughs at the absurdity.

"That will do nothing to conceal…" he hesitates briefly on what to call it; "everything that has happened here today." Behind him he can hear the sound of someone working close by and estimates that they have only a few minutes left before they are 'saved'.

"No." John agrees, bending and positioning the umbrella so that it covers the wet patch on the floor like a tent. "Of course it won't." He turns back to Mycroft and his lips quirk up, finding a measure of humour in the situation which frankly alludes Mycroft. "But that look, right there, that disgust with me. Keep doing that." Mycroft blinks, finally seeing John's plan unwind before him and he keeps his face locked as directed, while something in his chest lurches.

The lift jerks, Mycroft grabs for the handrail, his fingers brushing past John's and then the lift begins its aborted decent. John picks up his phone, slipping it into his jacket pocket and meets Mycroft's eyes, staring at him with an intensity that Mycroft is used to being on the other side of. A red flush begins to spread over John's face, his cheeks pinking and his eyes flicker for an instant to Mycroft's lips.

The lift stops, the doors opening and John looks away to their saviour, a bespectacled man in workman's clothes holding a screwdriver like a knife.

"I am so sorry." John says as soon as the man has registered the smell. "Too much water and we've been here for almost three hours." He trails off, looking so humiliated and contrite that if Mycroft hadn't spent an hour writhing on the floor he might have believed John himself. And then suddenly John's attention is fixed on him. "Mycroft, I'm so sorry, I never meant to embarrass you."

Mycroft blinks and swallows, maintaining his mask of disgust with a little more effort. John turns back to the building's engineer.

"Look, I know you won't say anything, but can't you, I mean, if you put a sign on the door, get everyone to use the other one, I'll send someone to clean this up, okay?"

The engineer considers the proposition but Mycroft has already seen his agreement in the way his eyes softened during John's appeal.

"Look mate, happens to us all, yeah?" He steps back and Mycroft moves quickly, walking out of the lift and leaving John to follow. "Sorry no one noticed you sooner." He adds, pulling an **Out Of Order** sign from his cart and placing it over the lift doors. He fiddles with something on the controls that Mycroft knows will keep them locked and the lift unmoving.

"Thank you!" John practically gushes, and Mycroft coughs, a warning not to overplay his hand. John hides a smile by ducking his head but not fast enough that Mycroft doesn't see it.

"No worries mate, just send someone quick, yeah? The place'll let out soon and that lot up there are going to want to be using both lifts." The way he eyes Mycroft as he talks reveals that he is purposefully holding his tongue against saying anything that Mycroft as one of "that lot" might take offence to.

"Of course. Straight away." John says, and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans, folding in on himself. "Thanks." He says again and then turns away and heads for the car.

Mycroft nods once at the engineer, who nods back, and then he follows after John, finding him around the corner beside a pitch black BMW. He already has his phone out and is speaking in low, urgent tones to the person on the other end. Mycroft waits impatiently and John hangs up a few seconds later, dropping the phone back into his pocket and pulling out a set of keys.

"All sorted." John says. "Someone from a case a while back, owes me a favour or two." John unlocks the car, opening the driver's door and leaning against it.

Mycroft stands, waiting for the judgement. The gentle dismissal (gentle, because Mycroft has seen many reports with one of John's break-ups sandwiched between roof chases and Chinese take-away meals and they are always gentle).

John tilts his head to the left, considering.

"Go home." He says eventually, and Mycroft jumps at the abruptness. Unsure and hating that of all things to get wrong, it had to be _this_ moment. The humiliation returns and he fights to keep it from showing on his face.

Mycroft nods, forcing a smile onto his lips and his hand clenches where the handle of his umbrella should be. "Of course. Good day doctor." He turns to leave, but John's arm shoots out and stops him, his body contorted oddly around the car door.

"For smart men, you Holmeses are complete idiots sometimes, you know." John smiles and rolls his eyes. "Go home, get changed, have a shower because I know you're dying to and be ready at seven. I'll pick you up and we'll go to the little Italian you love." John's smile deepens, and his fingers rub at Mycroft's jacket affectionately. "And then we can go for a drive out of the city for a bit. Have some privacy."

John looks at him, his ears pinking and Mycroft can almost believe that the last three hours haven't happened. His heart gives a sharp tug for the doctor and he nods, returning John's smile with a genuine one of his own.

John leans in, pressing against the door and Mycroft bends to meet the kiss, disappointed when John aims for his cheek. His lips brush there gently before aiming further back and his breath tickles at Mycroft's ear. "I want to touch you properly. I want to run my hands over you until you're writhing against me in pleasure, only pleasure and then I want to hold you and stroke you until you come." Mycroft's pulse jumps in his throat. "You're going to come so hard I promise it'll be the only thing you remember of today, Mycroft."

Mycroft coughs, clearing the sudden build up in his throat and pulls back. "I will see you at seven." He says carefully.

John smiles, and his eyes dance with promises. "Seven." He agrees and slides into the car, pulling the door shut.

The car pulls away with a screech of tyres and Mycroft stands for a moment, watching John drive away. Slowly a smile creeps over his face, pulling his lips up at the corners until his face aches with the unfamiliarity of it. He laughs, once, the sound shockingly loud in the car park and then turns and heads for the stairs. 

_And that_ , he thinks imagining Sherlock in his mind's eye, _is how John Watson has managed to ensnare both of us, dear brother._

It may not ever be easy, but Mycroft thinks that they are probably going to fit together just fine, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I am incapable of writing a single-scene kinkmeme fic. This monster was intended to be a few pages at most. I can't remember the exact prompt this grew from, but I figure there are enough desperation prompts on there that this'll fit somewhere.


End file.
